


Resources

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sam could just try hard enough, maybe he'd get something else from Dean.</p><p>Established relationship, unrequited feelings.</p><p><strong>Warnings: </strong>alcohol, abuse, and depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resources

I don't remember what it feels like to find love in your touch that lasts beyond the moment of connection. It's funny to even say that, because when I was soulless, I did. All I _had_ was these memories, this sea of nostalgia, and you were the island in the center. And you were perfect.

I knew you were deserted, even by me sometimes, but you're so beautiful, Dean. People left you, but you sent most people away, so you could be untouched, full of resources, free from people with their stupid needs like food and water and shelter.

You are afraid of people using you up. No one understands being afraid of being used up like I do. I can't tell you that; you wouldn't understand, but it's true. You use me up.

You use me up. Cause I keep swimming back and lying on your shore, exhausted like a beached whale, but you sit still long enough for me to live. You don't lift me up like you used to. I'm not stupid; I see it, I feel it. I don't know why I even bother trying to fill this hole in your heart you've planted trees from Purgatory into. I don't know why I crave you thinking I'm beautiful like chaos and death, like your vampire whatever-he-was. 

I don't know why I bother to get naked, to try and get you interested, when I know the alcohol intoxicates you better than me. I kind of want you to look at me like I'm beautiful, want to know you think I'm still worth saving, that you'd still go to Hell for me, even though I never want you to do it. It'd be nice to know you would. Maybe that's wrong.

But, then, I've been to Hell too, so maybe I can say that.

Let me backtrack. Sometimes when you're all loaded up with beer or whisky and you want me, you do look at me like I'm...attractive. In an off way, in a way that makes me feel like I'm a different species, like maybe I'm...some porcelain doll. Breakable, but you don't care. Like you're gonna fuck me anyway. Which is what I should want.

I think maybe it's what I want. Except not how I want it, of course. Sometimes, you do look at me like I have some kind of physical...landscape to me, say that I'm an island too, some kinds of dips and valleys you like, plus that one rock that looks like a woman crying, like you'd pay a few bucks to go on a wilderness tour but it's probably not even worth taking a picture of, maybe you'll just buy my post cards in the gift shop and send them to people you'd rather see.

You know, people say Sam and Dean cause it rolls of the tongue. But they really mean Dean and Sam because that's how it sticks in the heart. I know because it's true for me too. It's like I'm drowning, and, I mean, I shouldn't be, except I'm a whale, remember? Too big for your shore, and drying out, I guess I'm drying out, your sand wants my water and that feels okay when it's happening.

Why won't you say you think I'm smart? Or that I'm helpful? Remember that time Dad guilted me so bad I was sobbing in the bathroom and you told me he was a douchebag and we went to go split a chocolate shake? Remember when you carried me over your shoulder, smacked me on the butt, and said, "College boy solved another case. Don't do that to me again. How's the leg?"

Because I remember. Like you used to have these words in you but they're gone, or maybe they're just buried. I want to see them again. I want to know you're even recognizing that I'm a life form. 

It's like I think if you can touch me, if you can just fuck me hard enough, if I can perform, maybe some part of the awful impurity that is my entire existence can feel...whole instead. I've given up everything for you, and I'd do it again because I'm stupid. And I want it to be worth it. Is that so much to ask? If feels like so much to ask.

You're so straight. Almost a hundred percent. I'm not even what you want, not even what  _I_ want, I'm so fucked up, so fucked up the ass by you in the literal way, in the figurative way that claims that's a bad thing and maybe sometimes it is because I'm surrounded by you, I'm filled up with you, fed up with you.

You're so straight, and what am I? Available. I'm just so  _available_ , trying to tease, to coax, to find just a little spark of interest. I don't have  _anyone_ else. Amelia didn't even like me. Actually, she thought of me about the same. You're the only one I hope will look at me like you sometimes, once in a while, almost pretend to do. I just want to be pretty, hot, really wanted instead of just jerked around, instead of just jerked off, instead of calling, "Jerk!" to a voice that isn't gonna answer like that again cause we're so far gone.

Please just love me. I'm tired of waiting for it, I'm tired of being caught between distant hope and fainter memory, I'm tired of knowing you care but that not doing me any good because in the meanwhile I'm drying out, I'm tiring out, treading water just waiting for you to let me step onto shore. 

Dean, I'm here. Where I've always been. Dean, do you have even a shred of sentience or are my footsteps pointless, are my needs for food, water, shelter not even annoying but actually something  _that can't register_ _._ Are you in there? Are you underneath me, am I really seeing you? Is my love echoing in an empty cave, is it lost in the roar of the tide?

What else do I have to do, to make up for esteem I've lost? I'll never be young again. I can't take back growing up; it's taught me too much that I need in order to be even a facsimile of the man I want to be, I can't eject the blood coloring my veins, Dean. I can't take back that before I had sex with you I had sex with a demon, but here's the kicker: she touched me in a way I wish you would. That's probably the problem.

I probably want something even darker than your alcohol-brand incest. I probably want something wronger, something less mine to ask for than you pulling my hair, than you using me how I crave and yet not hard enough, not loving enough. Where's the drive that comes from caring instead of from spite and alcohol, I really want to know where it is I want it I just want a taste of positive affection I just want to be kissed like you don't intend to break me I just want to be told that I look good.

Waves, a bunch of white noise, a post card view from each of us, from me cause I can't speak up, when I try you get mad. From you because you don't want me to have the real you, and no matter how close we press, there's no real you there, I have to follow tiny glints of hope in the almost-lust in your eyes, in the off way you touch my skin when you don't need to. 

I'm so available. 

Dean, I'm so available, won't you just tell me what you think of what I'm offering?

And can't it, for once, be a kind word?


End file.
